Week 1, know thyself/the writer

Week 1, Part 1, Autobiography of the writer as a writer

A.

I write because I write, it sounds rather simplistic and I know there should be more to it; another layer of meaning that fuels this constant need to spend hours in front of an empty page or a blinking computer screen. I dig deeper, searching for an answer for what seems at this point as an obsession rather than just a harmless activity, something to fill my days with.

Yes, I love words, I like their feel and touch. I enjoy the way they roll off my tongue and how when put together, just right, they posses so much beauty, it moves me and make me hold my breath with appreciation.  I developed close relations with words; those that I like and those that I don’t and try to move out of my way. Ever since I started to write I pay more attention; my listening skills are more astute, and as words and phrases go in and out I catch them in mid air, hold them in my hand and make them mine. 

Words help me remember; I am thankful for that. My compulsive implementation of words and the never ending search for new topics to write about, shakes the dust off old forgotten memories, bring them up to the surface and make them live again. 

But is that all? In a moment of genuine sincerity I come up with something I did not think about until now. Writing is creation; something out of nothing is being formed. Writing is power, as a writer one can make the world stop and pay attention even if just for a minute; pay attention to the words, the story, but most of all, pay attention to me. 

B.

How do you know that you are a writer?

When can you claim this title for yourself?

When people ask you what you do, do you look straight into their eyes and in a calm, and confident voice, declare: I am a writer, that who I am.

You marvel at the surprise, you are inwardly amused by what is not being said:

“We always knew…the signs were there…certain aloofness…so quiet…always watching…now it is all clear…a writer”.

You secretly are using this new acquired labeling as an instrument to attain more freedom. 

A writer needs a lot of “me”, time and space, you like that.

A writer can sit in public places and watch people, you like that too.

The aura of uniqueness with a pinch of secrecy fits you like a glove.

You are a writer, so go ahead and write something.

C.

Like her father she wrote a diary; pages and more pages, notebooks that accumulated and piled everywhere. Small and skinny ones, fat with wide lines, blue covers, green covers and at times even pricey leather bound ones. When she leafed through them she could examine the changes in her handwriting, see how the letters formed and reformed over the years, just like her.

 “The Aleph”, at first, was one straight line teamed with a round, slightly curved line, to complete the traditional appearance.  Few years later in the more radical form, the soft curve gave way to angular lines, a bolder statement delivered “I am my own person, don’t take me for granted”.

On a whim she would pick a notebook, let it open on a random page and run her eyes along the lines. Things she forgot, problems real or imagined, people long gone from her life, would peer out from the pages and fill her with a mixture of melancholy and longing.

Ten years old, eighteen, twenty seven, forty, my, how the time flew leaving behind only words.